Time Bomb
by Donofan
Summary: Songfic based on the last scene in Season 2. Spoiler alert. Thanks to Jessy Greene for a wonderful song and to the Burn Notice person who chose it.


**After reading ProjectManhattan's "Closer Moon," and then listening to Jessy Greene's most excellent song from the season ender, I had to try a songfic. Spoilers for the last episode of Season 2.**

Time Bomb

The ninety-foot fall to the water below was easier than he expected, considering he'd never jumped anything over fifty before. As he dropped, he spread his arms and legs to maintain his balance, flailing against the wind that threatened to tip him at an angle, which would be deadly at this height. The glittering, solid surface approached, so he closed up before he struck, crossing his arms over his chest to avoid breaking them.

The plunge took him deep into the ocean, where he paused for a moment, his burning lungs and the ache in his feet and legs telling him that he had made it. He drifted in the silent green depths and then beat his way to the surface, emerging to shake the seawater from his eyes. Searching the sky for the helicopter, he spotted it resuming course for the city, leaving him stranded far from shore.

His first order of business was to shed his extra clothing. It certainly wasn't the longest swim he'd ever undertaken, but he had been in a lot better shape then, so every ounce of fabric meant a drag on his already depleted resources. He struggled out of his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and dragged off his pants and socks. It was time to go home.

As he stroked steadily but strongly for the distant skyline, conserving his strength, he had all the time in the world to replay in his mind the events that had happened to him recently. Images flashed behind his eyes, shut tight against the slap of the waves trying to beat him back from shore: the man from Management who burned him, Carla's still body, and then there was…Victor.

_Come to me,  
the moon is closer than your eyes._

He'd watched as the light faded from Victor's increasingly distant stare, giving his former enemy the respect he deserved of knowing someone was with him when he died. Victor held his gaze desperately, willing him to understand that this was the best way—the only way--, that Michael wasn't responsible, even though he had pulled the trigger. In a way, someone else had pulled that trigger years ago, and the bullet was only now reaching Victor's faltering heart.

_I can barely see through the cracks.  
Light shines out my scars._

He and Victor were alike in so many ways, their bodies marked by missions too numerous to remember. Scarred inside, too, by the actions they taken in the name of a cause, by the deaths of people they'd killed over the years, either on command or in self-defense, by the pain of people they'd left behind, left to wonder what had become of them…of him. Michael had often felt the strain, coldly cataloguing the first signs of cracking but always soldiering on through the uncertainty and pain. Even when he was a child, he'd been very good at surviving, at holding on.

_Sirens scream in vain.  
I have already died  
a million times inside._

In those rare introspective moments when he considered himself as a human being, rather than a tool or a weapon, he was all too aware that the constant strain of potential discovery and the ever-present possibility of dying an excruciating or—worse yet —a lonely death had taken its toll. Like Victor, he had built a carapace to shield himself and enable him to continue, but the same shell that protected him also repelled other emotions.

It wasn't until he'd been dumped in Miami that the barrier had begun to erode. Fi, Sam, his mother—even Nate—had all had a hand in chipping away at it. They showed him that he needed other people in his life, even if with their presence came the burden of additional responsibility and danger.

_I surrender,_

_shoot me down.  
No bullet could stop me now._

As he swam on, grimly, he forced himself to think of the crossroads he had faced not too many minutes ago, when he had gently closed Victor's glazing eyes and watched his shaking hand bring the gun up to his own head. It would have only taken a little effort to surrender to the thought that here was a way out for him, too, if he cared to take it. There was no one to do it for him, as he had helped the ex-spy, but he couldn't say he hadn't considered it before. One bullet, to put him out of reach of the strain of constant vigilance…and fear.

He could at least admit that to himself, out here alone. He was often afraid, though he covered it well with an impassive face and an unwavering drive to come out on top. He would never admit it to anyone else—not yet—although Fiona of all people would empathize, maybe even acknowledge his moment of weakness on the boat.

_My love does not depend on anyone or anything.  
It will never die._

Fiona. He kept the last memory of her face in front of his eyes like a door to safety. She was somewhere in the city ahead of him, and the need to see if she was unharmed kept him churning toward land, long after his arms were leaden with fatigue and his throat was raw from seawater. Their parting was synonymous with their relationship: the kiss and the blow, the sweetness and the pain.

_I'm ticking like a time bomb,  
soon to blow away._

The aching need to see her again drove him onward until he began to struggle more and more against the waves. Despite his best efforts to keep the thought at bay, he began to consider the possibility that he wouldn't make it back. He estimated that he had come less than a third of the way to shore, but he was already laboring to lift his arms.

And even if he made it, what awaited him? Without protection, old adversaries would come after him in force. It was only a matter of time before the word was out and they descended on Miami, coming after him or anyone who mattered to him. The fatigue of constant survival mode dragged at him, and he couldn't comprehend adding to his already unbearable burden.

But…Fiona. He rolled on his back and floated, chest heaving, trying to recover at least a little of his strength. There was no way to avoid involving her in his problems, which had just increased a hundredfold. It was useless to try. If he was an irresistible force, then Fiona was the immovable object. She would be there for him no matter how many times and ways he tried to push her away, to save her. And Sam, too.

_I am not you,  
you are not me,  
but we can still play._

Victor's face loomed before him as he shut his eyes against the setting sun. They were alike in many ways, true, but he would never _be_ Victor. He was more sure of that now than ever before. He had found in Miami a different kind of life, and it was the thought of that possible future that had helped him slide open the helicopter hatch and leap away from the other doorway that loomed, the one where they shaped him into the creature that Victor had become.

He shook the memory away and struck out again toward the buildings in the distance

_I could say I love you, if only for a day.  
My mind sunk this ship I am drowning in._

But, like the fear, he could admit to himself out here that he had loved Victor in that moment when his dying colleague had guided his hand—and the gun in it—to his chest. In killing him, he was killing himself. Victor had advised him to get out, but he knew that Michael would anyway, once he was gone. He knew instinctively that no matter what happened to Michael once he stepped off the boat, he would never be able to go back to who he had been before.

_I surrender,_

_shoot me down.  
No bullet could stop me now._

Despite his desperate efforts and the motivation of his rising fear, Michael felt himself beginning to sink beneath each successive wave. Cramps had set in long ago, though he had pushed on in spite of them, but now he struggled more than swam, his nose and mouth barely clearing the water. Rolling on his back did little to help, as he was unable to maintain enough buoyancy to keep his head up. A gasp for a lungful of air got him seawater instead, and he convulsed under the water, dropping slowly toward the sea bottom.

It was over. He felt the pressure of the depth tightening around him like arms.

_Michael!_ _Michael, you can't leave me!_

Fiona's command rang in his head, as he sank into the darkening water. He thrashed weakly toward the surface, toward that voice. His head broke the surface, and gasping, he reoriented himself on the towers of the city, striking out once more through the waves. To Fiona.

Now he was swimming blindly, machine-like, thinking of nothing but the repetition of strokes. He knew that if he faltered again, he would be finished…Fiona or no Fiona.

_My love does not depend on anyone or anything.  
It will never die._

Suddenly, his foot scraped bottom, and he explored with both feet, finding himself on a sandbar ridge. He stood gratefully, arms floating at his sides as he looked toward the shore only a half-mile distant. _It looks like you're gonna make it after all, sport_, a mocking voice whispered.

He would make it. And then he would find Fi and Sam and make plans.

(A/N: I've rewatched that scene on the boat with Victor, and it sure seemed to me that Michael thought about shooting himself, too. Anyone else feel that way? Thanks for reading this far.)


End file.
